As the Crow Flies
by Nightsfury
Summary: "Through the years of my Crow training, the one thing I had of my mother was a pair of gloves. But, we were not allowed such things." Zevran Arainai But there's more than one way to be a Crow, as Zevran discovers under a new elven master.
1. Chapter 1

_The idea for this story has been rolling about in the back of my head for some time. It came from a conversation between Leliana and Zevran about his tattoos. He claimed that some were sacred to the Crows and their meaning secret. It struck me as an odd claim, since (if you're approval with him is high enough) he has no problem 'tweaking their noses' in teaching you his assassin skills. So, why would the marks be off-limits? That set off a chain of speculation that led to this story. It's set way before the Two Sides universe, about when Zevran is fifteen or so, and ends up in the keeping of an elven master. _

_The tale gets dark in places, and ventures into some sensitive territory. (Nothing in this chapter, except for the after-effects of some Crow 'discipline.') Not sure just how long it's going to be yet, probably around novella length. And I can't guarantee regular updates (real life obligations) but I'll try not to keep my readers waiting too long._

_Thanks go to my beta, brownc0at for keeping me on the straight and narrow grammar trail, and for insightful comments. And to all you lurkers in the shadows.  
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Crouched in the semi-darkness of the sweltering oubliette, Zevran remembered what Amia had told him the day the Crow enforcer had come to The Blue Feather to look over the whorehouse children for potential apprentices.

"No matter how scared you get, Zevie, never let them see it. Never," she'd whispered fiercely in his ear just before the madam had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into her plush receiving room. Only seven and puzzled by Amia's words at the time, eight years had proven the wisdom of her last hurried lesson.

Zevran sighed and squirmed against the rough stone wall of his tiny cell, sweat trickling down his spine and stinging the deep red cane welts laced across his back and buttocks. Deep purple bruises extended the length of his ribcage on both sides. Trying to avoid those kicks would only have made the blows worse.

Enough light leaked around the door above him that he could make out the irregular white cracks snaking across the black walls. A few new lines had joined the others in the month since his last visit, so that the pattern now resembled a spider's web spun between two thick bars.

In the hot, dry air of the cell, the stink of his own unwashed body and the piss bucket in the corner filled his nose. Briefly, he wondered how long Master Jepheth planned on leaving him down here.

Wincing as he gently probed the bruised flesh around his left eye, he considered that this time, at least, no bones had been cracked. His right buttock throbbed as he shifted position, trying to ease the painful pressure on his left. After several minutes of constant shifting, he gave up trying to find a comfortable sitting position and curled up on his right side, his head pillowed on his arm. The cool stone felt soothing at first, then pressure against his tender side sent new aches thrumming through his flesh.

He sighed again and then started when the door above him squealed open. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he sat up and leaned against the wall. Too early for the single meal of stale bread and weak broth they lowered down once a day, it was probably Master Jepheth come to inspect the progression of his handiwork. Or perhaps the Master had decided to inflict additional punishment. Zevran had come as close to death as he ever had from infected sores the last time that had happened.

He punched the fear down into a small, dark corner of his soul and smoothed his face into an almost smile. After eight years of practice, it slipped over his features like a second skin. It gave him a safe mask to hide behind, a look bland enough that it didn't invite punishment, but never quite as wholly submissive as it should be.

"Was it worth it, Arainai?" a clear tenor that most definitely did not belong to Master Jepheth said above him. Oddly enough, while there was more than a hint of amusement in the question, Zevran didn't sense any mockery.

He squinted against the bright sun, trying to place the silhouette of the man who leaned over the small square opening. Against the backdrop of stark blue sky, he couldn't make out any features, only that the master was small and slender.

"Was what worth it, Master?" He played for time, trying to think of an answer that wouldn't earn him another beating.

"Answer the question, and I'll let you out of there." He still sounded amused.

Zevran shifted on his haunches, trying not to wince, and debated his answer. Say 'yes' and another beating would surely follow. Say 'no' and the master would know he was lying. They always seemed to know. It probably didn't help that he couldn't keep from grinning when he did lie. So, then, an answer between the truth and a lie.

"As much as anything is worth, Master."

The man laughed, the kind that comes deep from the belly. Hopefully, the ambiguous answer really did amuse him. He disappeared, and a few seconds later a narrow wooden ladder dropped down into the cell. Zevran clambered up, his teeth gritted. Every muscle ached. His bruises felt like they had bruises.

"Well, aren't you a sight," the master said, his hands on his hips. Zevran swayed on his feet, his empty belly queasy as he squinted against the bright mid-afternoon glare.

He had just enough time to notice the master was an elf with long serpentine lines curving down both cheeks. The enforcer in charge of the apprentice cells shoved him to his knees in the small courtyard, whacking him on the back of his head in the process. Zevran sucked in a breath, and his hands clenched on his thighs to keep from trying to rub away the painful sting.

"Are you sure you want this whoreson, Master Nylos? He's more trouble than he's worth."

"I'm sure he's worth as much as anything is," Master Nylos murmured.

Zevran couldn't quite suppress the smirk that blossomed on his face. He winced when the jailor whacked him again.

Master Nylos arched an elegant brow. "I'll take him from here, Master Bernardo. I'm sure you have more important duties to tend than wayward apprentices."

Bernardo shrugged. "As you wish. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Master Nylos waited till the enforcer had left, the heavy iron door to the small courtyard clanging shut behind him, before slipping his hand under Zevran's chin and tilting his head up. Keeping his eyes down, he had an excellent view of the Master's fine leather boots and tailored black trousers, not to mention the cracked gray paving stones of the oubliette courtyard.

"Look at me, Arainai." Amber eyes met those so dark Zevran couldn't see the pupils. "Was it worth punching Master Jepheth in the groin over a pair of old gloves? And this time, I want the truth."

Zevran swallowed. A cold, hard knot settled deep in the base of his belly as he wondered what game this master was playing. Masters didn't care about the truth. They cared about their gold and their privileges, and making life as miserable as possible for their underlings.

That strong, slender hand tightened on his chin.

"Answer me, or I'll toss you back into the dark and let it claim you."

"Yes, it was worth it," Zevran said in a hoarse voice, the words spilling out almost without thought. What did it matter what he said? Denying it would tell the master what he wanted to hear. But there wasn't any safety in that. Masters, especially ones like Jepheth, often punished simply because they enjoyed inflicting pain.

Master Nylos gazed down at him. Zevran tensed, but the expected blows never came.

"Get up. Master Jepheth has agreed to release you into my keeping for as long as I'm willing to put up with you. His words, not mine, in case you care."

He smiled and stepped back. Zevran rose, wary, and bowed stiffly. Master Nylos pulled a small healing potion out of his pocket and held it out.

"Drink it."

Zevran hesitated only a second, but the master cuffed him on the side of the head. Not a hard blow, and certainly not unexpected, and yet…

"You will hear that I'm soft; don't believe it. I don't tolerate laziness. You'll work harder for me than you have for any other master. I take only one apprentice at a time."

The healing potion burned going down his throat and for a moment, Zevran thought it might have been laced with an emetic. But it lay warm in his belly, and he realized that it was simply much stronger than ones he'd drunk before. Only a few seconds, and he already felt the swelling around his eye going down and the burning pain of the welts laid across his back and buttocks fading.

He gazed at the bottle in his hand, puzzled by this small mercy, and not trusting the motivations behind it. Master Nylos plucked the bottle out of his hand and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Why?"

"Master?"

"Those gloves. What was so important about them?"

Zevran looked away, his jaw tightening. Master Nylos cuffed him again.

"I asked a question, Arainai. I expect an answer."

"It doesn't matter. They're gone." He couldn't quite keep a tiny tremor out of his voice on the last word. His gut knotted up, that familiar ache whenever he thought of his mother, the pain he still quite hadn't found a way to hide. Maybe with her gloves no longer pulling on his heart, he would find a way to bury that ache.

"Not bad. You almost make me believe you really don't care."

Zevran's head snapped up. "I don't, Master. Truly. They're easily replaced."

Master Nylos moved very close, his eyes catching Zevran's and binding them up in their dark velvet depths so tightly that the young elf couldn't look away.

"You think so?" Nylos shrugged, releasing Zevran from his gaze. "Only you can know the truth of that." He smiled. "As long as no one else knows it, you'll have a better chance of survival." He started towards the door. "Come, we've tarried here long enough."

Zevran swallowed and dared a question. "Why me, Master?"

Nylos turned, his hand on the door handle. "So, you're asking me to justify my decision to you."

"I…no, Master, no. I…" Zevran dropped his eyes. "I…was just…curious. Truly, I meant no challenge."

Nylos chuckled. "Now, that I believe. As to why…you'll have to discover that for yourself."

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Nylos gazed down at his latest apprentice, sprawled on his stomach across the narrow bed in the tiny room he'd been given. He suspected that he could drop Zevran from the roof top, and the young elf would only roll over and slide deeper into sleep. Not surprising, given the strength of the healing potion he'd drunk, coupled with the first decent meal the boy had had in a long time. Jepheth liked to keep his apprentices on the lean and hungry side, thinking it made them fiercer and more cunning. It didn't. It only made them desperate and inclined to take foolish risks.

Nylos folded his arms and frowned. Stupid _shem._ You didn't half-starve someone you were trying to hone into an elegant weapon. Especially one with the potential Zevran had.

The plain gauze curtain drifted inward as the wind off the harbor shifted, throwing a wide bar of sunlight across the sleeping elf's face. Zevran grimaced and shifted upward, so that the sun fell across strands of hair the color of fine gold. Amber eyes, honey skin, and the planes of his face already shifting to an exquisite beauty many marks would find hard to resist. Because of that _shem's _misguided theories, Zevran's body still had the bony awkwardness of early adolescence. But decent food and the proper exercise would fill out his flesh.

The master slipped out of the room, leaving the door open so that Zevran would know he'd had a visitor when he finally woke.

Nylos smiled as headed down the short hall to his own room. His smile deepened as he changed into a worn pair of pants then strode to the tiny training courtyard behind his house. Any apprentice with the guts to punch Jepheth in the stones was one worth training. Especially an apprentice. There were full Masters who wouldn't risk that _shem's _enmity.

Nylos surveyed the wooden practice weapons in the rack on the left side of the courtyard and decided on a staff. He started slow, giving his muscles a chance to warm-up. Yes, he thought, coming out of a whirling form meant to sweep an opponent's legs out from under them, the staff would be a good addition to Zevran's weapons training. Heavily biased towards bladed weapons, especially daggers, Crow training philosophy underestimated the staff's offensive and defensive capabilities.

He practiced till sweat dripped off his chin and ran in a thin stream down his spine. Early evening shadows stretched long and thin across the beaten earth of the practice yard.

After re-placing the weapon, Nylos headed back to check on Zevran. The boy still sprawled, oblivious. The master leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms. Perhaps a lesson in mindfulness was in order, a reminder that no place was really safe. Nylos grunted. As if the boy didn't already know that. He wouldn't have survived the last eight years if he hadn't learned that lesson. Nylos slipped out of the room and headed for the small bath house off the kitchen.

He stopped, shifting to the balls of his feet, when he spotted the door to the bath house ajar. A smoky alto drifted out, wrapped around a _tragedia_, and despite the melancholy love song, Nylos smiled as he padded into the tiny changing room. He dropped his pants next to Sylvie's russet trousers and blouse, and then pulled aside the curtain of dark blue beads.

Sylvie lounged on the deep side of the larger bathing pool on the left, a slender glass of wine in one hand and a small pointed dagger, poised for throwing, in the other. Her other weapons lay close to hand, her sword arranged so she could snatch it up if needed. She finished the stanza, then smiled at him. He released the curtain, the beads clicking behind him.

"Heard you finally took a new apprentice," she said, laying the dagger aside but not out of reach. Her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, the ends drifting in the bath water. Small for a human, but sleek and strong, and wily as a desert fox.

"One of these days I'm going to find out how you know my business almost before I do." Nylos eased into the cool water, not quite within arm's reach of Sylvie.

Even after ten years, her laughter still sent a shiver down his spine directly to his groin. She took a sip of wine and then put the glass down and slipped forward, sliding her arms around his torso.

"And lose my air of mystery? Besides, you like challenges."

He kissed her, deep and hungry. Her nails dug into his back, her soft breasts pressed against his chest as she returned his kiss with equal fervor, laying claim to his mouth. Then she broke it off, gliding back in the water. Nylos chuckled. She did like to tease. He leaned back against the cool blue tile as she retrieved her glass.

"Are you sure about this one, Nylos? That whoreson has no respect for traditions or rules. And that mouth on him…I hope you're prepared for an earful, because you're going to get it…frequently."

Nylos reached for the soap and washcloth Sylvie had laid out next to the pool and began washing his arms.

"As you pointed out, I like a challenge."

Besides, he was far more interested in the supple mind that lay behind those flippant comments Jepheth always complained about. Based on what Nylos had overheard from hiding in the shadows and Jepheth's tirades over his wayward apprentice, the boy could think fast on his feet, and was far more perceptive than a _shem _like that would be willing to admit.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," Sylvie said.

Nylos chuckled, thinking of Bernardo's parting comment. Sylvie regarded him from under long lashes as she sipped her wine. He finished bathing, ducking beneath the water to rinse the soap out of his dark hair, before slipping forward and pulling her into his arms.

"Hmmm, hungry?" she said, twining her arms around his neck.

"Always," he murmured, his lips drifting across her face. She sighed and nestled closer.

"Watch your back, _carino mio,_" she whispered in his ear. "Jepheth doesn't owe you any favors now. And I would hate to lose such a skilled lover."

His hands slipped to the small of her back as he laid a line of kisses down the side of her throat.

"I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding another bed-partner." It wasn't as if they were exclusive to one another.

She waved a hand in the water, sending small ripples against his chest.

"That would be true only if I were willing to settle for anyone."

He smiled and leaned back, his hands sliding to her waist. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd cared about my skin."

She returned his smile and ran a finger down the center of his chest, over his heart. "You know how difficult it is to find quality…in anything. Besides, haven't you always claimed that one should appreciate the finer things in life so long as breath remains?"

"Throw my own words back at me, will you?"

She leaned forward. "Of course. Would you have me any other way?"

"Oh, I can think of a number of ways I'd like to have you right now."

She laughed and moved back into his arms.


	2. Chapter 2

The pale gold light of early sunrise streamed into the small training yard. Zevran grunted and skipped back, barely avoiding a sideways sweep meant to knock him to his feet. Maker, six solid weeks of waking before dawn. Master Nylos roused him even before the birds were up, or so it seemed.

The first morning after his arrival, the master had dumped him out of bed in the gray light of false dawn. Trained reflexes had sent Zevran into a tight roll and tumbling out a door he clearly remembered closing and locking before he'd collapsed onto the bed. As if the master wouldn't be able to unlock the doors in his own house. And the master's expression, hands on hips and grinning down at him, as if at some private joke. Amused, but not mocking, he'd even extended his hand and pulled the young elf to his feet before herding him through the house to the training yard.

Master Nylos came in for another leg sweep. "So, tell me, Arainai, why have we been sparring with peasant weapons, as well as blades?"

Zevran skipped back again and bumped into the high sandstone wall. "Because you plan on selling me to some farmer as a sheepherder?" He grinned and came back with a jab, aimed at Master Nylos throat. "Or perhaps a goatherd? I think I would prefer that, actually. I hear they're smarter than sheep."

Master Nylos laughed, easily blocking the jab. "Anything is smarter than a sheep."

Then the master pressed the attack, coming in fast and hard, knocking the staff from his hands. A sweep sent Zevran tumbling onto his backside and staring down a heavy length of oak poised just above his throat. He glanced up. Master Nylos was still smiling, the plain gold loops in his ears gleaming in the early morning light.

"You haven't answered the question."

Zevran grinned. "We're sparring with peasant weapons because you want to make my life miserable?"

Master Nylos' smile disappeared, and the end of the staff pressed into the base of his throat. "Trust me, Zevran Arainai, if I wanted to make your life miserable, there are far more effective ways."

Zevran swallowed and dropped his gaze, his fingers tightening on the packed earth of the practice yard. The staff pressed a little harder against his flesh. Ah, perhaps he shouldn't have been quite so joking. He couldn't help it, sometimes. Masters –in his experience – were always so damned serious, droning on about tradition and decorum till he wanted to scream. Couldn't one ever do or learn something just because it was fun?

"I…I'm not sure, master." He dared a glance. "But it never hurts to know a variety of weapons, yes?"

The pressure on his throat eased. "You've given me the beginning of an answer."

_Oh? And where am I supposed to find the end? Pull it out of my ass? _ Zevran clamped his teeth against the words that had almost spilled out of his mouth. Master Nylos seemed more tolerant of his comments, but even he would punish back-talk.

"In a contest of sword against staff, which would win?" Master Nylos asked.

Maker, that was easy. "The sword, of course. Steel against wood? That's no contest."

Master Nylos pulled the staff away, and nodded at the weapons rack across the compound. "Get a saber, and make sure it has an edge."

Wary, Zevran rolled to his feet. There was a trick in this, he thought, as he examined the weapons and pulled the requested blade. There was always a trick in whatever a master wanted. Master Nylos kept a casual pose, one hand loosely holding his staff as Zevran settled into the required pose after a crisp salute.

A heartbeat after they resumed sparring, Zevran spotted the weakness. The master had an advantage in reach on him of almost two feet. For a handful of seconds, Zevran managed to fend off attack. He never saw the blow that sent his sword flying. He did see the one that sent him tumbling to the ground, coming in too quick and low to avoid. For the second time that morning, he found himself sprawled on the packed earth, leaning back on his arms and staring down that length of hardened oak, shod with steel at both ends.

"You said something about no contest?"

Zevran grinned. "Clearly, master, I was wrong. I assume the lesson is not to underestimate an opponent…or to choose one's weapons and strategies carefully. Or something along those lines. Though, I am curious as to the ways to counter such a weapon. I mean-"

"You like to talk, don't you?"

Zevran dropped his eyes. "I…that is…" He swallowed. Maker, how should he answer that? Perhaps, it would be better to keep quiet.

The staff never wavered. Zevran swallowed, wondering how long Master Nylos planned on keeping it just above his throat.

"I asked you a question. Haven't you learned by now that I always expect an answer?"

"Well, yes, master, but…" Zevran swallowed, his eyes still on the ground, and then he grimaced and looked up. "I suppose I do like to talk. But for one who has no coin, words are free."

"No, quite the contrary. They cost a great deal, especially for one who has no coin. Say the wrong ones, and the cost can be your life." Master Nylos pulled the staff away and set the steel-shod end on the ground next to his feet, then motioned towards the house. "Get cleaned up, then change into something sensible. We're going into the city after breakfast." He held up a hand. "And don't ask me why. You'll find out soon enough."

Zevran scrambled to his feet and bowed before retrieving the saber and his staff, then returning them to the weapons rack. Master Nylos had already returned to the center of the yard, flowing through his routine with easy grace. Zevran glanced back before slipping out of the yard and heading to the tiny room he'd been given for a clean change of clothes.

He paused a moment in his doorway, the clothes draped over his arm. A bed, with a large chest at the foot, and a small desk and chair tucked under a rather wide window were the only furnishings. But he didn't have to share it with anyone, which meant he didn't have to worry about any of his few belongings 'growing feet and creeping away' as the saying went. Of course, the master could strip out anything he wanted at any time. But Master Nylos didn't seem to indulge in the casual cruelty that Master Jepheth embraced.

Not that Master Nylos was soft, Zevran thought as he headed for the bath house. Arms practice started before sunrise every morning and usually went till he was wobbly and could barely stand, and had gained at least a few bruises. There were also the usual exercises that involved holding uncomfortable positions for long periods of time, and running, of course, to build endurance. Maker, the man liked to impose running as a punishment. Be even a handful of seconds late, and Zevran could expect at least half-a- dozen laps between here and the dockside.

He smiled as he stepped into the bath house. Hard, yes, but after a month and a half of this, and being able to fill his belly whenever he was hungry, the muscles in his arms and legs were filling out and taking on pleasing contours. Further, there was an unadulterated healing potion available after practice if the Master deemed it was needed.

Zevran hummed a bawdy tavern song as he stripped off his sweat soaked clothes and then dropped them into a basket in the small changing room. He still had to do his own laundry, but not till after lunch, in the time set aside for doing chores, all part of the 'discipline' of training. Maker, he appreciated the concept of clean clothes and a clean living place, but how was spending an hour or so every day scrubbing his room and dirty clothes supposed to make him a better assassin? The masters certainly didn't do their own laundry or wash their bedroom floors.

Strange, though, with just his clothes and the small bedroom, the time set aside for cleaning was still the same. Which meant that he had idle time left over, though he couldn't leave his room till the master came for him.

He hated being confined to a place, even if it was a reasonably pleasant room with an open door and a fine view of Antiva City Harbor. The first few days the master had found him watching the ships sailing in the harbor. After that, books started showing up on the desk. Geographies and histories of Antiva. Books on herbalism, though they must have been written with the Crows in mind since the plants discussed were either antidotes, or sources of poison. Obviously, Master Nylos intended him to read them. Why else would they be there? Though he was puzzled by some of the selections, poetry, a book on fine wines and brandies. The latest had been a collection of maps of Antiva City Harbor.

He opened the spigot and let warm water flow into the shallow narrow bath he'd been told to use. The larger one on the other side was reserved for the master, Malusa, the housekeeper had told him. Water stored in the black cistern on the bath house's rooftop came from an aqueduct. Warmed by the hot Antivan sun, there was always plenty of warm water for washing or bathing, at least in summer. The bath itself was just big enough for a large human, the back sloped and surprisingly comfortable for lounging.

Zevran sighed as he slipped in, and then leaned back. As he did every morning, he just lay there for a few minutes, relishing the silence and the brief time of solitude, and the way the early sun brushed across the dark blue floor tiles. Some had sea creatures painted on them, fanciful starfish with a dozen arms, or tiny delicate fish in a rainbow of colors the master claimed lived in the coral reefs far off the coast.

Some things were very much the same as his last house, though: a dissection of what he had done wrong in the morning arms practice and how to correct it, the preparation of poisons and antidotes. The status of the current political alignments between the major merchant princes that ruled Antiva in all but name was frequently discussed, along with a liberal dose of Crow history and traditions. And the usual fare about traps, locks and their unlocking, how to trail a mark without being spotted, the best sources of information, and on and on. All infinitely familiar, and infinitely boring, topics. Zevran knew well enough to play close attention, since Master Nylos always asked detailed and pointed questions about what he'd just lectured on.

Not much different from his last house, really. But, in the evening when the wind blew in cool off the harbor, Master Nylos took him up to the tiny rooftop garden. They sat under a green awning, the master with a fine crystal glass of his favorite brandy and Zevran with fruit juice lightly spiked with wine. Nothing would be said for a while, and then the master would drift into a conversation about the making of fine brandies and wine, or how a jeweler found the perfect cut for a stone. Sometimes, there were stories of other lands, Ferelden to the south or the Tevinter Imperium to the west, even stories about things that happened in the market squares or along the dockside that day. And sometimes, they just sat there, watching the sun go down.

Zevran reached for the soap and a washcloth he'd placed on the side before entering the bath. Master Nylos didn't hesitate to cuff him on the head if he'd thought Zevran had stepped too far or wasn't paying proper attention. But those cuffs didn't even sting in the least. The master was a temperate man, as a Crow would judge it. But soft? No, Zevran decided. He wasn't quite sure, yet, how he would describe Master Nylos, but soft would not be one of the traits he chose. Under a seemingly easy surface lay a core of strength and will that tolerated nothing less than Zevran's best effort.

He bathed quickly, letting the water drain out while he replaced the soap in the cupboard, and then dumped the towels and washcloth into the laundry basket with his training clothes.

He finished dressing, then stepped outside and caught the scent of frying onions and hot peppers. Malusa, the fishwife who did the cooking and cleaning, was making omelets this morning. She was as plain as the black dresses she favored, but a marvel in the kitchen. His belly rumbled, and Zevran smiled as he hurried back into the house. Maybe he could flatter her into making some of those spicy sausages of hers, as well.

#

Nylos finished the last form and came to rest in the exact center of the training yard. By now, the sun was high enough to shine directly into the yard, as well as cast shadows from nearby houses. One shadow skewed a little too much to the right. He turned and looked up at the chimney on his roof.

"You're getting careless, Sylvie."

She slipped out from behind it and settled on the edge of the gently sloping roof, crouched like a cat, and dressed in sleek black leather. Her thick hair was pulled back in a braid and coiled at the base of her neck.

"Perhaps I wanted to be caught," she said with a smile, then dropped lightly down. He noted a spot of blood on her left shoulder, barely dry.

"So, Antiva lacks one less lyrium smuggler this fine day." He crossed the yard and replaced the staff in the rack.

"Two, actually."

He pivoted and arched a brow at her. "Oh?"

"Yes, an opportunity presented itself to exercise the option in the contract." She patted the bulging purse hanging from her belt. "So I took it."

"And you came here to celebrate."

She laughed softly as she glided forward. "You know me too well, Nylos."

_Not really. I know only what you let me see. But we both play the game, don't we, Sylvie, because it's less painful than dealing with the truth. _As quickly as it formed, he buried the thought in the bottom corner of his soul where he kept all the other painful truths of his life.

She slid her hands around his neck, and he let his hands settle on her waist. "I assume you listened in our practice session."

He smiled as she smoothed back a strand of his hair. "Hmm, most of it. You're entirely too lenient with that whoreson. He needs to learn his place and keep his mouth shut, especially during weapons training. And why, in Andraste's name, do you tolerate those insolent looks?"

His pleasure in her unexpected arrival congealed into a tight, hard knot. Even the first stirrings of desire settled, though his smile never wavered as his hands slid down to her hips. She never quite let him forget that even as a master, he was still subject to any human. Not deliberately, but in the end that didn't matter.

"As much as I would enjoy a diversion with you, I have plans for today."

She tilted her head. "So I heard. Well, tonight, then. I've been saving a bottle of that thirty-year old brandy you're so fond of."

He hid his irritation at her presumption of his availability beneath a kiss. "I'm afraid not. My plans, alas, include the evening hours."

She laughed. "I thought you preferred riper fruit. Though I'll admit he's starting to fill out quite nicely."

"My tastes haven't changed," Nylos said evenly. "But don't look for me tomorrow, either."

"Well, aren't you being mysterious."

He stepped back, sliding his hand down her arm to take her hand and kiss her fingers. For a heartbeat, she let her hand linger in his. He watched her as she nimbly climbed back up onto his roof, and then glided away, never making a sound.

He folded his arms, leaned back against the wall beside the weapons rack and gazed up at the late spring sky. He'd noticed the changes in his young apprentice and understood, better than any human, that beauty was a weapon as sharp and deadly as any dagger. And the only reason a Crow enforcer tasked with buying new apprentices had paid three sovereigns for a scrawny whorehouse boy. That Zevran possessed wit and agility in equal measure had been an unexpected bonus, but those traits were still secondary to his burgeoning physical charms as far as the _shem_ were concerned.

Nylos smiled. The kind of smile he made sure his human masters never saw. Let them think what they will, _he_ would ensure that Zevran was trained to as fine an edge as possible before someone decided that a certain elven master'susefulness was over.


	3. Chapter 3

_Many thanks to those who've added this to favorite/alerts and reviewed. You guys are awesome!_

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Zevran leaned forward in the bow, gripping the polished brass railing and shaking the salt spray out of his eyes. He grinned. Maker, this was…marvelous, even if the white-capped waves that surged up and over the railing left him drenched.

"Arainai," Master Nylos called out behind him. "Get back here."

Zevran scrambled back over the deck roofing the small cabin to stand beside his master. Those dark eyes flicked over to him, then back to the full-bellied sail.

"You were taught how to swim?"

Zevran's grin faded. "Yes, master." _If being tossed into deep water while some master watches you thrashing around can be called teaching. _Fortunately, Amia had sometimes taken the children out to collect clams and mussels for the whorehouse kitchen. A lesson or two on swimming had always crept into those excursions, so he'd known how to stay afloat. Some of the other apprentices…hadn't.

Master Nylos pointed eastward, to a large island crowned with a high bluff. "You see that island? Almost in the center of the mouth of the bay?"

Zevran squinted against the sun throwing sharp spears of light off the waves while the wind whipped strands of hair around his face. "Yes, master."

"Name it."

The young elf gulped and twisted around, scanning the bay behind him as he shifted his weight to keep his balance as the boat sliced through the choppy water. They were still well inside the bay, since he could see the north-western edge of Antiva City, hazy blue with distance.

"You did examine that collection of charts I left on your desk?"

"Yes, master. I…I'm just looking for a point of reference." Not really a lie, but Maker, there were a dozen islands that lay within the wide mouth of the bay. Even if he had thought to memorize all of their names, he didn't know how to transfer what he'd seen on the maps to what lay before and around him. Not that a master tolerated any excuse for a wrong answer.

"I'm waiting, Arainai."

A familiar ache that had never quite left him when he'd been under Master Jepheth's authority settled anew in his gut.

"I…I'm not sure, Master." He braced himself for the backhanded blow at which every master excelled.

"You don't know how to read a chart, do you?"

"No, master."

His gaze focused on the rising and falling deck, Zevran couldn't see Master Nylos' expression. But the soft sound the master made sounded suspiciously like a snort…of disapproval. Zevran risked a quick glance, and caught a narrow-eyed frown just before the master's face smoothed over. His gut tightened. He knew that look.

"I assume you were taught how to read a map."

"Yes, master."

Master Nylos turned the wheel hard to the right, and the wind spilled out of the sail. The small boat drifted, bobbing in the rough water. In the far right side of the bay, there was little traffic, except for the occasional pleasure-craft like this one.

The master released the anchor rope, then stepped back and studied his young apprentice while Zevran wondered what punishment would be meted out. Swimming back to shore wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

"In the simplest terms, a chart is just a map of the water so you can find your way across a bay or down a river without running aground." A smile thin as the edge of a dagger flicked across Master Nylos' face. "Or, avoiding guard posts stationed along a river bank."

The master stepped past him and flipped opened a small chest bolted to the deck. Relieved and puzzled, Zevran watched as he rummaged through it, then turned and tossed him a thick wad of silk.

"Unfold it."

Zevran shook it out. "It's a map."

Master Nylos sighed. "A chart, Arainai. It's called a chart." He crouched down on the deck, then motioned for Zevran to join him.

"Spread it out on the deck."

A guide to Antiva Harbor lay before them. Concentric irregular lines of black outlined shades of blue that, except for scattered areas, deepened from a pale wash of blue along the shoreline to the sapphire of dusk as one moved towards the center of the bay. Numbers woven into the map next to the black lines increased as the blue color darkened. The names of the islands woven into the map in elegant letters shimmered in the sun.

"It's beautiful," Zevran said, fingering the thick, soft fabric.

Master Nylos glanced up and smiled. "Yes, it is. Elegance and practicality is an uncommon mix. Treasure it when you find it." He pointed to one of the numbers near the center of the map. "Why do the numbers increase?"

Zevran frowned in thought, then smiled. "They indicate depth." He ran his finger across the map. "It gets deeper as you move toward the center of the harbor. So I assume the darker the color, the deeper the water."

"Very good."

Zevran felt warmth gather in his belly at the unexpected praise.

"Now, why is the chart made of silk?"

"Ah, I assume, master, for the same reason some maps are. Easier to hide and carry, and the markings won't run or blur in bad weather."

"Yes, unfortunately, being made of silk also renders it useless for plotting a course, but there are paper ones available for that."

Master Nylos turned, balanced on the balls of his feet, and pointed at the island he'd asked Zevran to name earlier. "The island is called The Serpent's Tail." On the chart, he traced the long chain of islands curving down from the northeast to the southwest like an undulating snake. His fingertip came to rest above the island he'd just named. "Most of these islands are little more than sandbars. Yet possession of this chain has passed back and forth between the three most powerful merchant houses for the last four hundred years." He looked up and smiled, thin and sharp. "House Rubio is the current owner. They obtained it from House Pena twenty-two years ago, who in turn claimed it from…" He motioned to Zevran.

"House Alarcon, which had it for almost a hundred-and-twenty years after they stole it from House Rubio who…" He stopped when Master Nylos held up his hand.

"And they all fight over it because?"

A scavenger gull called out as it passed over the single mast of the small boat.

"The tariff houses are located on Serpent's Tail. Who ever controls those controls the gold that flows into the city from shipping imports."

"Quite an incentive to take out a contract, wouldn't you say?"

Zevran's eyes widened. "You've bid a contract on House Rubio, Master?"

He grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth. An apprentice did not ask questions about a master's business. Rule number one twenty-seven, or something, wasn't it? But Master Nylos only chuckled.

"No contract has been posted…yet. But rumors float among the alehouses and in the brothels that House Alarcon grows restless over House Rubio's 'ownership'. They've always regarded those islands as exclusively theirs. It's only a matter of time." He rose and motioned towards the anchor line. "Now, go pull up the anchor. You're going to learn sailing. Not all contracts are in Antiva City."

* * *

Nylos glanced back when he topped the rise of the small, sandy hill. The wind tugged at his clothes, pushing a strand of dark hair across his face. He tucked it back behind a pointed ear and hitched the leather strap of his pack higher up on his shoulder.

Zevran wandered down the beach from the boat, pulled up high onto the shore, and collected driftwood. Nylos had instructed him to collect enough to keep a small fire going through the night. After that, he was to study the book on navigation now tucked inside his shirt.

The Crow master turned and glided down the shallow slope on the far side of the crest before his apprentice could catch him watching.

"Jepheth, you're a narrow-minded bigot and a fool three times over," he muttered, now that he was well out of ear-shot of his apprentice. The boy needed a firm hand, yes, but also guidelines that didn't shift under a sadist's whims. If he had violated boundaries, it had been because Jepheth had kept changing them. You didn't punish without a reason, and you rewarded effort and success in the acquisition of skills and knowledge.

Nylos' stride lengthened as he headed onto a well-known path that wound through a large grove of beach willows. In the middle of a salt-water bay, this small island boasted a fresh-water spring that bubbled up sweet and cold in the middle of that grove. By the time he reached the edge of the small pond the spring fed, his temper had settled.

He sank down onto a flat rock beside the pond, then let the strap slide off his shoulder. Bright red and blue song-birds flitted through the branches while the sun painted slender limbed tree shadows on the mossy ground and across the still water. Here, in this serene place, he could almost forget the Crows existed. Almost.

He stretched out a leg and thought about the current game of politics playing itself out in the backrooms of the expensive brothels and wine houses the wealthy nobles favored. Then he shrugged and pushed those thoughts aside. Time enough to deal with that when they returned.

He opened the leather pouch and retrieved a small bundle wrapped in a square of soft black linen. He fingered the edge of the cloth and then gently pulled its edges apart. In the center of the cloth lay a pair of soft deerskin gloves lined with rabbit fur. Made for a slender hand with long, tapered fingers, the kind of hand Zevran had. Even in the shade the fine silk embroidery shimmered. Why Jepheth hadn't burned them in front of the boy, the Maker alone knew. Enraged over being slammed in the stones by his wayward apprentice, he'd probably forgotten about them, and they'd been dumped with the day's trash. Lying on top of the heap, they'd been easy to retrieve.

Nylos fingered the soft leather. He recognized the graceful loops and whirls of green and gold thread as Dalish design, even if he didn't know their meaning. Elegance and practicality, he thought with a smile. The elaborate design and small, neat stitches spoke of careful craftsmanship, the kind that went into a gift.

Apprentices were not allowed anything beyond what a master deigned to give them. And no master, especially one like Jepheth, would make a gift like this. So Zevran had had them since his purchase from the whorehouse.

"Ah, you're a clever one," Nylos murmured, thinking of how the boy had hidden these from both his masters and fellow apprentices for so many years.

He measured a glove against his hand - small, but not small enough for a child. These had been made for a woman's hand. He could guess the meaning of that.

"Clever, and foolish, Zevran Arainai. Crows have no family, haven't you yet learned that?"

He laid the glove back beside its mate. He should burn them. Not in front of Zevran, of course. Nylos had no stomach for the casual cruelty in which Jepheth delighted. But he couldn't quite bring himself to cast them into a fire. They'd survived eight years in the Crows. That deserved some kind of memorial.

He rose, laying the gloves and his pouch to one side, before digging away some of the loose earth from around the edge of the stone he'd been sitting on. When he'd cleared a space large enough to slip his hands under, he spread his legs for balance, gripped hard and heaved it over. The sandy soil underneath was cool and not as tightly packed as he'd thought. He scooped out a deep hollow, and then re-wrapped the gloves in the black linen before laying them in the earth.

He filled in the hole, stamped down the soil, and heaved the rock back over it. He probably should say something, but the Crows had no funeral rites. A hurried, un-marked grave was the best one could hope for.

"Maker keep you safe," he whispered to the unknown woman, though she'd followed other gods. He picked up his pouch by the strap, and retrieved the large water flasks Zevran had seen him tuck inside. After filling the flasks, then replacing them in the pouch, he returned to the beach.

Next to a sizeable pile of driftwood, Zevran had even hauled a small log to the makeshift campsite. He sat on it, barefoot, the bottom of his pants rolled up to his knees and the navigation book open on his lap. His frown deepened as he flipped through the pages.

"Maker, how does anyone remember all the steps for finding longitude? By the time you figure out where you're supposed to be, you'd be someplace else," he muttered as Nylos eased up. Amber eyes flicked up in his direction when Nylos' shadow edged into his peripheral vision, and the young elf bounded to his feet, and bowed, his cheeks slightly flushed. It was clear to Nylos that his apprentice expected to be punished for a 'flippant tongue,' and for the implied criticism in his words of the master's choice of training.

"You learn it the same way the navigator wrote it, one step at a time. Or don't you like a challenge, Arainai?"

"I…that is… It's just that math and I have never been good friends."

Nylos set the pack next to the wood. "Then it's time you became better acquainted, isn't it?"

Zevran grimaced. "Yes, master."

Despite his protests, he did well on the beginning exercises, so Nylos surmised that his apprentice just didn't care for calculations.

Like a fat gold sovereign slowly sliding out of a miser's fingers, the sun eased down toward evening. When it sat just above the horizon, Nylos directed Zevran to start a fire and prepare dinner. Though he knew Malusa had recently started giving him some instruction on cooking, Nylos didn't expect much. As long as it wasn't burnt beyond recognition, he'd be satisfied.

While it cooked high up on the beach, Nylos drifted towards the shoreline and let the warm waves lap over his feet. Dusk, the time of shadows, had always been his favorite time of day. The moon, almost full, hung low in a clear sky. It would be a good night to practice taking star sightings.

The wind shifted, and the scent of garlic and hot peppers drifted across his nose. Subtler scents lay underneath those, coriander, oregano, and rare saffron. He recognized Malusa's fish chowder. Nylos smiled and returned to the small fire, where Zevran sat on the log, stirring the contents of a small black pot suspended over the campfire.

He started to rise, then sank back, looking wary and puzzled when Nylos motioned him back down.

"I see Malusa's cooking lessons are already settling in."

Zevran grinned. "Yes, master. She complained that since I eat so much, I needed to learn." He hit the stirring spoon on the side of the pot before replacing the lid. "The woman is a marvel in the kitchen. Where ever did you find her?"

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, he paled. He certainly hadn't been rude or even remotely 'flippant,' but Jepheth didn't tolerate words that even hinted at familiarity, let alone ones that implied an apprentice was commenting on his judgment.

Nylos pulled a small flask of brandy from the leather pouch before answering. "So long as you show respect, ask me whatever you wish. However, unlike you, _I_ am not obligated to answer."

The lines of tension in Zevran's body eased. "Yes, master." Then after a few moments, he said, very carefully, "You're not going to tell me, master, are you?"

Nylos almost laughed. The tones held disappointment, annoyance, and even a hint of resentment, but heavily overlaid with respect. An interesting and complex mix, little wonder he'd driven Jepheth to distraction.

Decades of practice kept Nylos from even smiling. He took a sip of brandy, enjoying the warmth of it before it flowed down his throat.

"No, Arainai, I'm not. You can try asking Malusa. But I doubt she'll tell you anything."

During dinner, Nylos went over the sextant and how to use it. When the stars came out, Zevran proved a quick student.

"So many stars," Zevran said, after they'd been at it for well over an hour. "How did they decide which ones to use? I mean, if you picked the wrong ones, you could end up in the wrong place, couldn't you? Or would you just wander all over the ocean? Or perhaps-"

Nylos chuckled, then gently pulled the sextant out of Zevran's hands. "Go get some sleep. You're taking the late watch."

"Yes, master," Zevran murmured, then turned to settle in for the night. It didn't take him long to fall asleep.

With his back to the fire to preserve night vision, Nylos took a sighting on a brilliant point of light just above the moon, now more than halfway up the sky. The star lay in the direction of home, over where he'd been born. He still thought about home sometimes. Though he felt as if he remembered someone else's life, someone else's family. The Crows bought their apprentices young because they believed that it made it easier to shape them into a tool for killing. Though the Guild raised them to know murder, training walked a fine line between harsh and brutalizing. Under heat and pressure, iron became steel, supple and strong, to be shaped into whatever weapon was needed. But apply too much heat or pressure at the wrong time, and you ended up with a blade that easily shattered.

It took many years and a lot of gold to train a skilled assassin. The Guild wanted to recoup every coin of their investment and a handsome profit, as well. Though losses were inevitable and accepted as a cost of doing business, the Guild didn't want them to cut too deeply into profits.

Nylos lowered the sextant. Memory wasn't perfect. Guild training knew that and assumed that early memories faded and fragmented beneath a harsh regimen. Many did, but some things…some things one never forgot. Some things one recalled as clear and clean as the day they happened.

He closed his eyes and remembered the day he'd been sold to the Crows. That morning, there had been the smell of raisin bread baking in an outdoor oven. The deep clear blue of an Antivan summer sky and the yellow heat of the sun on his arms. The sweet taste of cool water sliding down his throat. His father singing as he mended a fishing net. The whir of his mother's spinning wheel. His parent's cries when the debt collector came to collect their youngest child for the slave market for payment. These things he'd remembered and hidden deep inside his soul. It hurt to remember them. It would hurt more to forget.

Carefully, he packed the sextant back in its wooden box and then went to wake Zevran for his turn at watch.


	4. Chapter 4

_Many thanks to those who've reviewed and added this to alerts/favorites. And, of course, to brownc0at, my beta who helps me keep my commas in line.  
_

_This chapter travels into darker territory in the second section, told from Master Nylos' point of view. There are references to rape and torture, though I decided against any explicit depictions.  
_

* * *

Strange, Zevran mused, as he crouched in the deep, cool autumn shadows cast by a wide tavern chimney and the three story apartment building behind him, how people never looked up. His grey cloak hood was pulled over his head to hide his hair. He'd chosen his position so that the sun would be directly in someone's eyes at this time of day if they did happen to glance in his direction. But no one did. Of course, being still and quiet as a mouse waiting out the cat didn't hurt, either.

He resisted the urge to scratch his nose, just to make some movement, while he scanned the street up and down from the expensive brothel his quarry had entered almost two hours ago. For the last two months, when the head of House Rubio visited the Pink Slipper every Thursday around mid-morning, he only lingered for about an hour or so. Not long enough for even a courtesy visit with one of the fine ladies who worked there. But today…

Zevran smiled. Perhaps there had been a change in plans, yes? Perhaps he'd decided to partake of some of the 'delicacies' for which this particular whorehouse was famous. Or perhaps, other negotiations were being conducted. The Pink Slipper was a popular spot for assignations involving plotting and scheming against one's rivals.

The rumors Master Nylos had mentioned had led to contracts that had proved quite profitable, mid-level accountants in House Rubio who'd been replaced the next day. If he had coin, Zevran would wager those replacements were, at the least, secretly sympathetic to House Alarcon's claim to The Serpent's Tail. It was a classic opening move in a bid for power.

Other than tracking those marks to determine their habits and patterns of movement, Zevran had not been involved in the actual hits. He'd been a little puzzled by that, since he 'knew his way around a dagger,' as the Crow saying went. And a master didn't have to share any of the profits with his apprentice. Though Master Nylos had given him a fine set of throwing daggers, both currently strapped to his forearms.

The buzz of mingled voices drifted over him as people strolled by in the street below.

"Can you believe it, Dalish camping just outside the city," a man's voice drifted up. "I've never heard of them coming so close."

"They do, from time to time," a woman replied. "Sometimes they come to trade. Though-"

Their voices blurred into the general background. Zevran noted the bit of stray gossip to add to his report when he returned. Master Nylos was fond of saying that one never knew when odd bits of information might be useful.

The gilded door to the Pink Slipper opened, and Zevran caught a glimpse of gauzy blue curtains stirred by a passing breeze as the latest customer, a fat merchant, slipped inside.

The only way to find out what the head of House Rubio was doing was to infiltrate the place under a short-term contract. Six months under Master Nylos' roof had seen his body take on athletic proportions that earned him more than a few lingering glances when he sauntered down the street on some errand for his master. Zevran had even dared to suggest such a contract. But Master Nylos had forbidden it. Antivan law put the age of consent at seventeen. Since Zevran had only just reached his sixteenth year, he couldn't lawfully sign such a contract.

_Yes, as if that little legality has ever stopped those who preferred unripe fruit from enjoying it. _Still, he supposed his master's prohibition made sense in that even the Crows had to show a token respect for the law. _Sleight of hand, as it were._ _You_ p_retend to obey some laws, and the authorities look the other way when you're obviously breaking others. _Though, any law could be, and had been broken to fulfill a contract.

The chantry bell rang out the mid-day hour. Master Nylos had been quite explicit about returning by the first hour after that. Across the red tile rooftops, the trip back would only take a handful of minutes, which meant that he could stop off and enjoy a bowl of peppery fish chowder at the Tangled Net before returning. An inn favored by cut-purses, street-whores, and the rough sailors who worked the squat ships that hauled pig iron, undressed marble and limestone, and other heavy freight up and down the coast. But the clientele was only part of its charm. The Net was surprisingly clean and well-kept for being in such a disreputable part of the city.

Zevran smiled as his hand closed over his purse. Only a few silver lay within, pilfered from unwary pockets on his way through the marketplace this morning, but coin enough for a bowl of chowder and some of those buttery biscuits that melted on the tongue. Master Nylos' house rules didn't forbid lifting a few coins now and then.

He glided to the far end of the roof and jumped lightly down into a narrow deserted alley. Marks, especially human ones, were so easily distracted by a smile and a look that promised what would never be delivered. Well, it might be, if the mark were pretty or handsome enough, Zevran thought as he sauntered down the alley, flipping back the hood of his light autumn cloak.

He paused at the alley's end and lounged against a wall, arms loosely folded as his amber eyes surveyed both sides of the wide street. A dark-eyed woman in a cloud of expensive perfume and rose-red silk drifted by, a red-silk parasol shading her creamy skin. She glanced at him and smiled, then hid her smile behind a fan. Her bodyguard glared at him. Zevran ignored the glare and returned her smile. He wondered if she was on her way to a client, or on her way back from one. Ah, well, either way, she was well beyond his meager purse at the moment.

No Crow apprentices he knew seemed to be lurking about, so he slipped into the street, sauntering in the opposite direction of the beautiful courtesan. The Net lay half a dozen streets away, at the edge of the warehouse district near the docks. The bakery he'd pass on the way there would never miss a day-old sweet roll or two from the outside stall.

It seemed he wasn't the only one planning on nicking a pastry, judging by the way that human was eyeing them, Zevran thought just after he emerged from a side street opposite the bakery. Slightly taller than average, his dark brown hair cut short and a light touch of beard along his jaw line, he leaned back against the pole of a street lamp, his brown cloak tossed over his shoulders and his thumbs hooked in his belt. Rather attractive for a human, in a rough, hungry sort of way, though his hands kept shifting on his belt. He rubbed the side of his nose and pretended to look elsewhere when a guard strolled by. Zevran frowned. The potential thief looked familiar, a face that nagged at his memory, though he couldn't quite place it.

The elf's eyes narrowed. Why would a man in plain but clean-looking clothes that weren't patched or faded be thinking of stealing a sweet roll? Zevran slipped back down the side street till he came to a long narrow alley that curved around and came out at the end of the street the bakery was on. Halfway down the rubbish strewn alley, he had to turn sideways to slip past a small, empty cart pulled up behind a dry goods store.

At the end of the alley, he eased out, using a display of intricately woven baskets to hide his observation of the human, who stood less than ten feet away. The man was younger than he'd first thought, not past his late teens. He turned sideways, giving Zevran a clear view of his profile. Ah, he remembered where he had seen this man, one of Master Aleta's apprentices. She'd brought him along on her last visit to Master Jepheth, the week before the master had discovered his mother's gloves during a random inspection. His stomach tightened and Zevran shoved the memory to a dark corner. They were gone, no point in dwelling on what one no longer had.

Now, as to why this one was here, eyeing day-old pastries…

Zevran's finger tapped the hilt of the small dagger at his waist. It wasn't uncommon for one master to 'loan' an apprentice to another for additional training. Master Jepheth wasn't noted for keeping a generous table or giving his apprentices even a single copper. And his house rules strictly forbade stealing without his clear permission. Punishment for breaking any rule was swift and severe, but only if one was caught.

He smiled. Maker, the opportunity to tweak his former master's nose without him even knowing it was too good to pass up. He sauntered out from behind the basket seller, making sure his path crossed into the other's peripheral vision as he eased up beside him.

"I can assure you, my friend, they're as tasty as they look. Though you might wish to consider if spending a few weeks with a bruised backside in the oubliette is worth satisfying a sweet tooth."

The man's hands tightened on his belt, though he displayed no other signs of tension. Zevran heard the man's belly rumble, but the elf kept his gaze focused on the pretty woman who tended the outside stall.

"Besides, wouldn't it be easier to pick a pocket or two, or relieve some overburdened mark of a purse and use the coin to buy them?" Zevran continued when the man's only response was to flick a pair of hazel eyes in his direction.

Zevran chuckled. "Ah, the strong, silent type, I see. Did I mention I have a fondness for that kind?"

"Do you ever stop talking, elf?" A pleasant, low tenor sent a shiver down Zevran's spine.

"Hmmm, that depends. Did you have, perhaps, something…else… in mind for my tongue?"

That elicited a brief chuckle. "I've heard about you, Zevran Arainai. Six months gone and Master Jepheth still manages to work you into a lecture at the drop of a dagger."

"Well, you have the advantage of me, knowing my name when I don't know yours."

Those hazel eyes lingered on him this time. "From what I've heard on the street about you, I'll take that as a compliment."

Amber eyes met his, and Zevran caught a flicker of desire from the human before his face smoothed over. He felt the echo in his own flesh. Ah, possibilities here…quite pleasant possibilities.

"Taliesin."

Zevran arched a golden brow. "Just Taliesin?"

"For now."

"As you wish," Zevran said with a low chuckle. "Now, about those pastries…"

"I heard rules against lifting coin, nothing about baked goods."

"Oh, that wasn't mentioned in one of the sub-paragraphs? Or perhaps an addenda? Of course, it might have been slipped in between the sub-sections about not scratching your ass without permission."

Taliesin choked back a laugh, then shook his head, amusement still dancing in his eyes when he looked at Zevran.

"Trust me, my friend," Zevran said softly, "when it comes to the rules, they are whatever Master Jepheth wishes them to be at that moment." His grin returned. "Now, if you're still interested in a hit, I think adding a suitable distraction would greatly facilitate the endeavor."

"Master Jepheth was right about one thing, you do like to run at the mouth. However," Taliesin leaned forward, his breath warm against Zevran's ear tip, "I'm open to suggestions."

Zevran re-settled his cloak around his shoulders. "Watch, and be ready to move quickly."

He sauntered up to the human woman and flashed a radiant smile. She smiled back, blushing prettily.

He scanned the tray and made a tsking sound. "Ah, no _polvorones_, my lovely flower?"

"No almond cookies today, I'm afraid." She glanced at the bin to her right. "However, there are plenty of _bunuelos, _filled with orange or lemon marmalade."

Zevran leaned in just a little and motioned to the tray. "Please, one of the lemon ones sprinkled with the rose colored sugar that matches the blush in those lovely cheeks."

She smiled, her blush deepening as her fingers covered her mouth, then turned to the tray on the far side of the table to his left.

Taliesin glided up. Zevran pretended to stretch, pushing out the edge of his cloak so that it blocked her line of vision to his right for a few crucial seconds. Taliesin strode past, his eyes flicking briefly at Zevran, before the human headed for a bench on the far side of a small fountain in the middle of the square. Zevran paid out the few coppers for his pastry and blew the woman a kiss as he left.

Taliesin was nibbling on a cinnamon bun when Zevran settled beside him.

" '…matches the blush in those cheeks?' Isn't that a bit much?" Taliesin said.

"Hmmm, she didn't seem to think so," Zevran murmured, then took a bite of his lemon filled pastry. He dropped a cinnamon bun on Taliesin's lap. "Here, have one for dessert."

The human stared at it, then chuckled as he slipped it under a fold of his cloak. "I take back what I said. Damn, you're good, elf."

"You have no idea."

Zevran quickly finished his treat, then rose, brushing crumbs off his lap. "Well, I have business elsewhere." His mouth tilted up in a smile, and his eyes drifted over the human in lascivious appraisal. "If you ever find yourself in need of a partner for business or other…endeavors…I'm sure we can come to some arrangement."

"I'll keep it in mind," Taliesin murmured.

Zevran inclined his head, then turned, feeling the human's gaze following him as he glided away into the crowd.

* * *

One got used to certain absurdities of Crow life, such as sharing a glass of thirty-five year old brandy, while moving through the intricacies of a social visit that Antivan etiquette demanded, with a man who would slit your throat in a heartbeat if it proved profitable for him to do so. Nylos had concluded long ago that Fortune had a very twisted sense of humor. Ah, well, it kept life interesting, if balanced on a precarious edge.

Jepheth, seated in the cushioned chair, held his brandy glass up to the broad parlor window, admiring the way the sunlight streamed through the clear amber liquid within it. The two lieutenants he'd brought with him waited in the small sitting room just off the front door. Though, since Nylos couldn't see them from here, he couldn't assume they were still where he'd left them.

"You have such exquisite taste." The flat, dark eyes of a serpent slid off the fine crystal and met Nylos'. "I find myself wondering how such a man can tolerate the likes of that vulgar whoreson. How long has it been? Six months?" He took a sip of brandy. "Yes, I believe it has."

_Get to the point, shem. We both know why you're here. _"I'm still of a mind to keep him. There's some promise there," Nylos said.

Jepheth waved a ringed hand and leaned back in the thickly padded chair. "Oh, I'll admit he has some natural talent. He might even be useful to the Guild, once all the rough edges are sanded off."

_You mean once he's properly submissive. _

Jepheth took another sip of brandy, regarding Nylos over the rim of his glass.

_You're going to force me to ask, aren't you? Very well, I've no stomach to prolong this farce. _ Nylos set his glass on the elegant rosewood serving table positioned between their chairs.

"I assume you're here to exercise the option in our arrangement concerning Zevran."

"Of course. Every master has his strengths…and his weaknesses. Those apprentices who've survived to this point deserve to be trained by the most skilled among us when certain aspects of their education come due. Wouldn't you agree?"

Like almost every other Crow that Nylos knew, Jepheth's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I've never disagreed with that principle." Not openly, at least.

Jepheth's stone flat eyes flicked past him. Nylos turned to find Malusa entering, carrying a porcelain plate of slender spicy sausages wrapped in flaky pastry. Zevran trailed her, smiling. Unlike Jepheth's, his reached into his eyes, then slipped out, turning forced and brittle when he spotted his former master.

He bowed deeply enough, though it lacked the casual grace that had slipped into that gesture of respect in the last few months. He kept his eyes down, like any well-trained apprentice, when he straightened. But his body had shifted forward, poised on the balls of his feet. Though Nylos knew it was instinctive, Jepheth would read it as a challenge.

Malusa set the plate on the table, bowed briefly to the two masters, then left the room, her stride stiff and hurried, unlike her usual languorous grace.

Jepheth put down his glass and rose, gliding up from the chair with the sinuous grace of a serpent rising from a rock. Say what you will, few could match his skill with a blade…or a whip. The scars on Nylos' back could testify to the latter.

The human circled Zevran, his eyes roaming over every inch of the boy. A sick, tight knot gathered in the pit of Nylos' stomach. Pain came in many forms, and a Crow had to survive them all…or perish.

"I always forget the difference six months can make, even at this age," Jepheth said and glanced at Nylos. "I assume you've continued with his sword training."

Zevran's fingers twitched, as if his hand had started curling into a fist and then he'd stopped it. The corners of his mouth tightened slightly.

"Of course," Nylos said as he leaned back and picked up his brandy glass.

Jepheth's smile held nothing of amusement and all the hungry anticipation of the predator.

"I know your fondness for less conventional training methods and weapons. But our traditions exist for a reason. They've proven their effectiveness down through the centuries. Neglect one, and the result is a dangerous imbalance of skills, particularly in those that require…endurance."

He glided over to the snack Malusa had brought and plucked up a pastry wrapped sausage, then nibbled on it while he returned to studying the boy.

"Yes, exquisite taste," he murmured, finishing his snack. Nylos half expected him to lick his fingers in anticipation in front of Zevran.

Best to get this over with, Nylos thought, rising. "When can I expect to collect him? I've an extended exercise planned for-"

"I'd planned on conducting his training in your indoor exercise room, Nylos. More convenient if you don't have to travel to retrieve him, wouldn't you agree?"

_No, I wouldn't, you sodding sadist. But why waste an opportunity to show me my place?_ Quick and hard that thought came, too fast to keep something of it from showing on his face. Judging by the way Jepheth's smile thinned, he'd caught that flicker of anger. Nylos knew, with a soul-sick lurch, that Zevran would pay the price for that.

"Now, why don't you escort him there, hmm? I expect him to be ready for training when I arrive." Then he picked up his brandy, and walked over to the window, turning his back on Nylos as he would a servant.

The elven master pivoted, catching Zevran's eyes as he turned. He saw apprehension, and a hint of fear, though he quickly buried it. _Sod it, boy. Haven't you yet learned to hide that?_

"Come," he said, short and abrupt, then headed towards the indoor training room that had been added to the back of his house when he'd started taking on an apprentice. Zevran trailed him, his step so light, his boots barely whispered against the polished wood floors.

"Take off your shirt," Nylos ordered as soon as they stepped into the exercise room.

"Master?"

Nylos whirled. "Do it. Or do you wish to feel my whip as well as Master Jepheth's?"

"I-"

For the first time, Nylos struck him across the face, hard enough to sting and redden his cheek. Zevran's eyes widened and he almost backed up a step. He should have dropped his gaze, but he didn't. Nylos couldn't assume that one of Jepheth's underlings wasn't hiding in the shadows on the roof, listening. Safer to assume one was and hope that Zevran would read between the lines.

"I've put up with much from you these past months. But there are limits, Arainai, to what many will tolerate." Safe enough, but his next words ventured into dangerous waters. "One master's training weakness is another's strength, as Master Jepheth so graciously reminded me. He excels in areas where I have yet to develop his level of…expertise. I expect you to conduct yourself as befits a Crow. We do what is expected. Do you understand?"

Zevran looked at him for a long moment and then dropped his eyes. "Yes, master, I understand."

The boy's face showed nothing as he pulled off his shirt and then stood, holding it in his hands. Nylos gently retrieved it. Zevran's jaw tightened.

_Maker help me, boy, I hope you do. _Nylos draped the shirt over his shoulder, and then went over to the rope wrapped around a cleat on the wall. After unwinding it, he lowered the punching bag it secured to the floor, and untied the rope from the bag. Zevran's face still showed nothing as Nylos bound his wrists. He flinched just a little when his arms were raised above his head.

Nylos might have said something at that point, but then Jepheth, trailed by his two underlings, glided into the room, a coiled whip in his left hand.

"Excellent, I'm pleased one of you shows some discipline."

_I'm not your sodding apprentice anymore, shem. _

Jepheth let the whip uncoil, his eyes gleaming as his gaze locked on Zevran's back. "I'm sure you have business that requires your attention, Master Nylos. You can retrieve him at sunrise...if you still want him."

Nylos inclined his head. "Very well, I'll return then."

He didn't linger to see Jepheth's reaction and didn't slow his stride till he found himself in Malusa's kitchen. It had always belonged to her, from the first moment he'd brought the apostate healer into his home.

She sat at the small round table. A bottle of his favorite brandy had been set beside a fine green porcelain teapot. Two cups were set out, together with the plate of pastry-wrapped sausages. He shook his head.

"Malusa, I can't afford to get drunk, not today."

She picked up the teapot. "Then have one to settle your nerves."

He leaned on his hands on the table. "My nerves do not need…settling. They need…" He closed his mouth against the rest and slid into the chair opposite her. She poured for both of them, then picked up her cup.

"I've everything ready for when that _bastardo_ is finished."

"He's a master," Nylos said, sharper than he meant.

"He's a beast that walks on two legs."

"Being able to endure such things is a necessary part of training. You know that."

Too carefully, she placed her cup on the table. "Does that mean he has to enjoy inflicting it? And it won't end there, you know that."

Nylos slammed his fist against the table, rattling the cups. "Enough."

She stood abruptly. "I'm going for a walk, Nylos. A long one, down by the docks. When you need me, I'll be in my room." She retrieved her shawl from the chair next to her and draped it over her shoulders. Black silk jacquard with long beaded fringes, his gift to her last Satinalia.

For long moments after she left, he focused on his breathing and forcing his hand to unclench. With his equilibrium restored, he returned the brandy to the cabinet, and then slipped back to his room.

He stripped off his clothes and tossed them into a corner. He would burn them in the morning. If only some memories could be so easily disposed of. He pulled on the soft gray pants and shirt he wore when he stalked the shadows. Soft soled boots and a long dark cloak, his favored throwing knives, and a slender dagger in his right boot completed his preparations. A quick glance out his window showed dark clouds gathering over the harbor. It meant he couldn't use the sun to blind an onlooker, but the shadows would be darker, deeper, easier to hide in.

He slipped through the shadows of his house, taking to the rooftops from his training yard. Malusa knew never to take the same path twice in a row, but there were only so many ways to the docks from his house. Gliding over the rooftops, it didn't take long to find her. He trailed her to a small tea shop, then settled into the deep alcove of a side alley. By the time she re-emerged and returned home, it was close to sunset.

Keeping watch over her had given him something to focus on, or at least, the illusion of something. He crouched in the shadow of his chimney, watching the light fade from the western sky. When true night came, he slipped to the section of his roof that covered the indoor exercise room. Lower than the rest of the house, the shadows were deepest here. A strategically placed crack carried sound, though he couldn't see inside.

Nylos closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool ceramic roof tiles. Underneath the sound of a lash snapping against bare skin, he caught the faintest whimper from time to time. Zevran still lived. And he endured. He wondered, hoped the boy had understood the hidden warning to guard his tongue.

The sound of the whip stopped. Nylos' hands balled into fists when a few minutes later, a strangled cry replaced the faint, sporadic whimpers. From the sound, he knew Zevran clenched his teeth. The whimpers returned, and after what seemed too long a time, the sound of the whip returned.

_Maker, keep him strong. Let him survive. And let me survive long enough to ensure his. _With such prayers, Nylos kept his vigil.


	5. Chapter 5

_Apologies for the delay in updating, all those pesky RL obligations. There will probably be a bit of a delay in posting the next chapters, too. I'll try not to keep you all waiting too long. :) _

_Thank you so much to all those who've read, reviewed and added this to favorites/alerts. The response to this story has been greater than I expected and I deeply appreciate your support and comments. Thanks especially to brownc0at for rounding up the commas and being my beta.  
_

_To briefly recap, in the last chapter, Zevran met Taliesin (who will be appearing in future installments) for the first time, then returned to Master Nylos to discover that his old master, Jepheth had returned to administer a lesson in 'endurance. This chapter picks up the morning after that.  
_

* * *

"Zevie? Where are you, _chiquito?_" Amia's voice drifted down the hallway.

Zevran scrubbed a tear out of his eye with his fist, then peeked out of the linen closet to make sure she was alone. Good, Lupe wasn't there. He pushed the door open further, edging into the hallway.

"Ah, there you are." Amia's nose wrinkled. "Why are you hiding in the sheets?"

"Lupe-" He whimpered when he took a step forward, the welts on his backside flaring. He was trying not to cry, he really was. At five years old, he was too big to cry. But it hurt so much. And it hurt across his back and his legs. And...

He started when a warm hand touched his face, brushing sweat-tangled strands of hair out of his eyes.

"It's all right, _chiquito._ It's over," a woman's voice said, her hand stroking his head.

"Amia?" But it didn't sound like her. Amia's voice was light, like butterflies. This voice was deeper, like the dark buckwheat honey Malusa served with her griddlecakes. His eyes drifted open, but the edges of vision were still blurry from the dream.

Master Nylos' housekeeper sat on a low stool next to his bed, a soft cloth in her right hand.

"It's over," she said again.

He lifted his head, then cried out as pain sliced through him along the lash marks laid across his flesh from his shoulders down to the back of his thighs just above his knees. Other places hurt. His hands tightened in the soft sheet covering his bed when that memory surged up.

"_Cabron," _he muttered.

"He's still a master," Master Nylos said from the doorway. Zevran could read nothing in his face. But it said something that he was laying on the bed in his room, and not at the bottom of some dank oubliette, after one of Master Jepheth's training sessions in endurance.

"Malusa, bring some tea, will you? And whatever you think he'll be able to keep down."

"I need to begin soon, or there'll be scarring."

"Please, I won't take long."

She nodded, then rose and glided from the room, handing him the cloth as she passed through the door. Master Nylos settled on the stool, then dipped the cloth into a copper basin set on a small table. His face still showed nothing as he gently squeezed out the excess water. Pale green and smelling like herbs, the water dripped off a frayed edge. Then Master Nylos laid the soft linen across his apprentice's left shoulder.

Zevran hissed at the light touch, his hands tightening again. His back burned, then cooled as the pain started to lessen. Shadows flitted through the master's dark eyes and hovered around them, as if he'd hadn't slept. The sleeves of his rumpled dark gray shirt were rolled up to his elbows, a sharp contrast to his usual neat appearance.

"We do what we must to survive, Arainai. For a Crow, especially an elf, that means doing what is expected of us and being a tool in someone else's hand."

"Being _used_ by someone else's hand, you mean," Zevran muttered, too worn out and hurting too much to care about being respectful. Oh, Maker, it hurt…and not just his body.

Something shifted in the master's face, peered out through those dark eyes from some deep place in his soul, then slipped back inside.

"Yes, there is no escaping that…ever. Not in this life," Master Nylos said quietly.

Malusa returned then, carrying a tray with a teapot, cup, and a covered bowl that smelled like her chicken broth. She set it on the desk in the corner.

"What happens in this room stays here, Arainai. Breathe one word of Malusa's healing, and it will be the last breath you ever draw." Then his hand closed gently over Zevran's wrist. "She's skilled. There'll be no scarring. I can spare you that, at least."

Then he twisted up and away, leaving Zevran staring at the empty space where he'd sat. Such odd words. Why would a master wish to spare him anything? Wasn't such training about becoming hard, about leaving the 'soft' feelings behind? What use were they to one whose life would be spent killing others?

"He means it, _chiquito,"_ Malusa said, settling back on the stool.

"Killing me? I don't doubt that." From a master, what else should one expect?

She lifted the cloth off his back. "And about your skin. He risked much to keep me out of the tower. The only magic I have is healing, but the chantry thinks even that makes me too dangerous to live outside the circle." She dipped the cloth back in the basin, then wrung it out before laying it further down, over his left shoulder blade. He winced, but the pain subsided quickly. "He'll keep watch. Sometimes, the templars roam through this area. If one does while I'm healing what that _cabron_ did…" She smiled, a small dark one Zevran had never expected to see on her face. "Now, close your eyes, _chiquito, _and try to sleep."

He obeyed. Soothing warmth flowed over his shoulder as Malusa hummed softly. Under her hands, his skin itched and pulled. It hurt a little, but the healing kind of pain that's almost a relief as flesh moves back to wholeness.

"I wouldn't say anything, Malusa," he murmured.

"I know, and so does he. But we do what is expected, remember?"

And say what is expected, he thought. Never trust the surface of things had been one of the earliest lessons he'd learned. It had saved his life on more than one occasion. He'd always thought of it in terms of looking for the hidden trap, the betrayal buried in any promise, or the catch in every favor. For the first time since the Crows had bought him, he considered that with this master, what lay beneath the surface was something…unexpected. Not affection. No Crow cared for another. _Why me, _he'd asked Master Nylos, not really expecting an answer but unable to suppress his curiosity. He'd been told that he'd have to discover that for himself. Maybe…just maybe, it might be a question worth pursuing.

He drifted into a light doze, rousing when she slipped her hand under his cheek and lifted his head.

"Drink," she said and pressed a cup against his mouth. He tasted cool, strong tea, heavily laced with mint and honey. When he finished that, there was broth, salty and warm, flavored with garlic and saffron. His hand closed over hers as he swallowed it. It took him a moment to realize that his shoulders didn't hurt anymore. After a few minutes, his eyes closed. Maker, he was tired…so tired. The last thing he heard, before drifting into real sleep, was Master Nylos asking Malusa something. Zevran tried to focus, then gave up and slid down into the soft darkness.

* * *

"Is he asleep?" Nylos asked.

Malusa checked Zevran's pulse, laying her hand against his neck. "He is now. Between the drugs and the healing he should sleep through the rest of the day and most of the night."

Nylos folded his arms. "Good." He gazed at Zevran's half-healed back. "It's going faster than I expected."

"They look bad, but they're not as deep as I first thought. I should be done in a few hours. And there'll be no scarring…this time." Keeping a hand on Zevran's shoulder, she gazed up at Nylos. "As for the other…you need to speak with him."

His hands tightened on his arms. "What would you have me say, _mi amiga?_" What could he say?

"If you don't say something, Nylos, it will eat away at him. Like a slow poison. How does that help him become a Crow?"

"Some say it would make him stronger."

She made a sound of disgust. "Breaking someone doesn't make them stronger. No matter how well you put the pieces back together, there's always something missing." Her eyes softened when she looked back at Zevran. "Did it make you stronger, Nylos?"

"You tread dangerous ground, _mi amiga."_

"When have I not?" she muttered, then waved her hand at him. "Go. I can't concentrate with you hovering over me like some anxious fishwife. I'll let you know when I'm done."

Nylos just nodded and slipped out of the room. After taking again to the rooftops, he resumed his patrol. Fortunately – for the templars - none came near.

* * *

He gazed down at Zevran's empty bed. Nylos wasn't surprised, but he had hoped the boy wouldn't take off after the Dalish camped outside the city. He snorted. Ah, foolish notion, hadn't he learned long ago not to indulge such fancies as hope?

He laid a hand on the bed, and found the sheets cool. It had been at least twenty minutes or so since Zevran had slipped away, probably longer. The chest at the foot of the bed stood open. Most of his clothes and the fine throwing knives were gone. According to Guild rules, that was theft. An apprentice of Zevran's rank owned nothing, not even the clothes on his back.

"So, the bird had flown the nest," Malusa said behind him.

Nylos glanced back. His housekeeper matched his gaze, steam from the teapot on her tray curling up with the scents of lemon and mint. He took it from her and set it on the small side table. Then he settled on the bed and poured himself a cup.

"He can't fly far without coin." He blew across the top of the cup, his dark eyes still on hers.

"Oh, and I suppose all those lessons in cutting purses and lifting coin from pockets will go unused?"

He sipped his tea before answering. "It doesn't matter how much he steals. The Crows fly far. He knows that."

"Then go after him. Catch him before one of the enforcers does."

"I can cover his absence for at least a week, if I need to."

She tilted her head. "You know where he's gone."

"Not for certain, but I have my suspicions."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Better if you don't know,_"_ he said, then drained his cup and set it back on the tray. "If I'm right, he'll be back in a few days."

"And if he's not?"

"Then I hope the Maker watches over him, because he's going to need it."

"They'll kill you if they find out, Nylos. You've already broken at least half-a-dozen of those rules you're so fond of citing to me."

The corner of Nylos' mouth tilted up in a smile. "Death comes for everyone, sooner or later. I never expected to die of old age. If it comes to that, I've already chosen my way."

She folded her arms tightly and stared down at her brown, sensible shoes.

"Our arrangements will still stand, Malusa."

She just nodded, then turned on her heel and left. As he leaned back against the wall, Nylos considered that it could have gone much worse with her. Some things she had never accepted about Crow life. But since she wasn't raised to it, he had never expected that. She was still a treasure.

The boy returned just at sunrise of the third day after he'd left. Already in his training yard, Nylos came out of a whirling form with sword and dagger to find Zevran on his knees, his eyes rooted on the packed earth. Habit and training made the Crow master check the shape of shadows in his yard. Nothing looked out of place, but he'd learned long, long ago to never trust the surface of things.

"Come with me," he said, striding past Zevran. Nylos didn't turn around till Zevran had followed him back to his master's bedroom. After laying his weapons on a side table, Nylos deliberately brushed against his kneeling apprentice when he turned to lock his door. The boy flinched, his hands tightening into fists.

Assuming an easy pose, leaning back against his desk, his arms loosely folded, Nylos still felt tight as a drawn bow. He pulled in a deep breath and released it. What were a few more broken rules on top of the ones he'd already ignored?

"Look at me, Arainai," he said softly. Nylos didn't know whether to be pleased or saddened that he could read nothing in those amber eyes. _Maker help me, boy. How did you make me care what happens to you?_

"The Dalish didn't want you, did they?"

The corners of Zevran's mouth tightened, just a little. "No, master."

"Why did you come back?"

Zevran's eyes fell from his. "Does it truly matter?" he said almost in a whisper.

"Yes, Zevran, it does." The boy's head snapped up. Nylos unfolded his arms, then his hands closed over the edge of his desk on either side of his legs. "You know, as well as I do, what Guild law requires for runaways, yet you returned. I would know why."

"I…you…" He pulled in a deep breath and focused his gaze on the floor just in front of Nylos' feet. "I left the Dalish the same day I found them. They called me a flat-ear." A complex mix of pain and anger permeated his tones. "And you…in the time I've been here, you've never laid a hand on me."

More than one meaning in those words, Nylos knew. What he wanted to say next ventured into dangerous waters. Ah, and when had he ever shied away from something simply because it was dangerous? There was more than one way to be a Crow. Something men like Jepheth refused to acknowledge.

"You understand why he raped you? Why he will continue to do it during his 'endurance' training?"

Zevran flushed, his hands tightening again, but his voice was steady, even if he spoke in scarcely more than a whisper. "Yes, master. To remind me I am nothing. That he can do whatever he wishes with me."

"Yes, and there is nothing you or I can do to change that. What you _can_ do…is survive." Then Nylos stepped forward, crouching down in front of his apprentice. He slipped a hand under Zevran's chin, gently pushing his head up. Uncertainty flickered through those amber eyes, and something fierce and beautiful, as well. How it had survived the last eight years, the Maker alone knew. "You want to punch the lion's nose, Arainai? Then survive…and do more than just that. Take pleasure from every moment you breathe. What he did was ugly. Look for beauty, anywhere you can find it." His fingers tightened on Zevran's chin. "Death comes for everyone, sooner or later. Even for him. Not from your hand, or even mine at this time. Perhaps not even in the next few years…but someday, it will find him."

His eyes held Zevran's for a long moment. Nylos felt his heart beating in his chest, felt Zevran's beneath his fingertips pressed against the pulse in his neck.

"I understand, master," his apprentice finally said.

Nylos released him, then flowed to his feet. He motioned to the door. "Get dressed for training and meet me in the yard."

Zevran rose, then bowed, more deeply than protocol required. Nylos caught the ghost of a smile, the kind a hunter wears, tugging at the corners of Zevran's mouth as he glided from the room. Every Crow's days were numbered. How long they stretched was a matter of skill, how well one took to training, and sometimes, just plain luck. However many or few remained to Jepheth, Nylos knew that Zevran would have the counting of them. He prayed that the Maker would ensure that Zevran's days outnumbered Jepheth's.

* * *

_I favor the Spanish side of the Italian/Spanish divide on Antiva's language. So:_

_cabron - 'fucking bastard'  
_


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